In the Realm of Tilsim Hoshruba: A Conversation with Haala Humayun, a Pakistani novelist and the author of the fantasy series “The Legend of Tilsim Hoshruba.”

My name is Haala Humayun, and I wear two very different but deeply entwined hats in my life. By day, I am a lawyer—a careful observer of the world, attuned to its rules, its balance, and its undeniable logic. But by night, I step into a very different realm: that of a storyteller, a weaver of dreams, where magic is real, love is epic, and destinies are written in stars. Writing is not a profession for me—it is a calling, a way to give life to worlds that linger in the corners of my mind, waiting to be set free.

I was born in Lahore, a city of rich culture and stories whispered through its alleys, but I was raised in Islamabad, where my father’s government postings took us. Islamabad, for all its modernity and order, became my true childhood home—the place where my imagination first began to wander into the realms of enchanted lands, heroes, and prophecies. Though we eventually returned to Lahore, and that city is where I live today, Islamabad will always hold a special place in my heart; it is, in many ways, the town where my inner worlds first took shape.

I belong to the Qureshi caste, and perhaps it is this very lineage, entwined with history and a sense of storytelling passed down through generations, that drew me to the Middle Eastern folktales and legends of Tilism-e-Hoshruba. The stories of Amir Hamza, of enchanted kingdoms and sorcery, have always resonated within me—perhaps because they speak to a timeless longing for adventure, courage, and magic that never truly dies.

I have two sisters and a close-knit family, who have supported me quietly while I navigate this dual existence—law in reality, and fantasy in the limitless world of imagination. I am a Cancerian by nature, so my emotions run deep, and perhaps that is why the worlds I create are so intensely alive, so rich with love, conflict, and destiny.

In essence, my life is a delicate balance between the measured, meticulous world of law and the limitless, soaring world of imagination. And it is in that balance, I think, that the magic begins—not just on the page, but in the way I see the world, in the way stories are born, and in the way I hope my readers experience a piece of that wonder.

Although law is my profession, I have always felt that my heart belongs to stories—worlds where magic, courage, and destiny intertwine.

It all began quite unexpectedly, with my father—the first storyteller of my life, though he never claimed the title. I still remember those quiet evenings when he would speak of the folktales of his childhood: Tilism-e-Hoshruba and Dastan-e-Amir Hamzah. His eyes would light up as he described the grandeur of their magic, the sorcery, the heroes and tricksters who danced across those pages. Often, he would say, “The magic of these tales is far greater than the magic you see in Western films — it has soul.”

One day, he brought home the complete volumes of Tilism-e-Hoshruba—ancient, heavy, filled with a mystery I didn’t yet understand. He placed them in my hands and said, “You should translate these into English. The world deserves to know the wonder that was written in our part of the world.”

But I wasn’t ready. I was trained to reason, to argue, to analyze. I was a lawyer, not a translator, not a storyteller. Those books stayed in the storeroom, unopened, for weeks, whispering their magic quietly.

It wasn’t until much later, after completing my Bar Vocational Course, that fate intervened. One afternoon, out of sheer boredom, I picked one volume from the shelf and began to read. And within moments, I was lost—lost to the world, lost to time.

The story was unlike anything I had ever encountered: enchantments that could topple kingdoms, tricksters whose wit reshaped destiny, and battles that made the land itself tremble. And yet, as I read further, I noticed how the tale wandered, repeated, and lacked the logic that modern readers crave. Still, something inside me stirred—a wild, insistent idea that refused to rest.

I began, experimentally, translating a few pages. Then chapters. Then the first book. But when I finished, I read it again—and deleted every word. It didn’t feel alive enough. It was someone else’s dream retold, not mine reborn.

In that moment, I realized: I do not follow paths laid before me. I am a wild horse, running wherever the heart calls, even if there are no reins. So, I took a leap that defied all logic. I decided not to translate Tilism Hoshruba, but to rewrite it, to reimagine it—a rebirth where the original magic could breathe again, now with reason, soul, and wonder intertwined.

That’s how The Legend of Tilsim Hoshruba was born—not as a mere retelling of an old folktale, but as a living, breathing realm where fantasy meets logic, where magic and science coexist without contradiction, and where faith quietly resides in the hearts of its characters.

I often say that I didn’t choose this path. The story chose me. Those dusty books in the storeroom had been waiting patiently for me to return. And in answering their call, I found not just a story, but my calling, my voice, and perhaps the destiny written for me long before I even held a pen.

And perhaps that is why, when it comes to creativity, I remain a wild horse. I do not follow reins—I follow the wind.

Adapting a centuries-old Urdu epic like Tilism-e-Hoshruba was both a challenge and a calling—a delicate dance between reverence for the original and the freedom to let my imagination soar. The original epic is monumental, written in highly Persianized Urdu, dense with antiquated language, sprawling plots, and endless layers of magic and heroism. Its world was rich, yes, but often inaccessible to modern readers. My goal was not to merely translate or retell it, but to reimagine it in a way that could breathe again, vibrant and alive for today’s audience.

The first step was to immerse myself completely in the original text—not just reading it, but feeling it. I wanted to understand its heartbeat: the essence of its magic, the rhythm of its adventures, the cunning of its tricksters, and the honor of its heroes. Then came the hardest part: deciding what to keep, what to reimagine, and what to leave behind. I could not simply reproduce the sprawling narratives as they were—modern readers crave clarity, emotional depth, and characters who live and breathe beyond the pages.

I approached the adaptation with two guiding principles. First, faithfulness to the soul of the epic. I wanted readers to feel the grandeur, the stakes, the enchantments, and the heroism that made Tilism-e-Hoshruba legendary. Second, accessibility and modern storytelling. That meant restructuring plots, developing characters more deeply, and weaving logic into the magical fabric so that readers could follow and care about the journey without losing themselves in endless episodes.

Characters became more nuanced, their motivations richer, their relationships layered. Magic was reimagined not as mere spectacle, but as a system with rules, consequences, and wonder. I wanted the world to feel real enough to touch, yet infinite enough to dream in, where prophecies hold weight, tricksters charm and deceive, and heroes confront both external and internal battles.

It was a painstaking process of translation and transformation—not of words alone, but of heart, culture, and imagination. I treated it almost like breathing life into a sleeping giant: letting the epic rise from the past, step into the present, and speak to the hearts of readers who had never encountered this world before.

In the end, the adaptation became its own living entity—The Legend of Tilsim Hoshruba. It honors the legacy of the original, yet stands as a story that can be read, loved, and experienced today, inviting readers into a realm where ancient magic and modern sensibilities coexist in harmony.

World-building, for me, is never just about setting a scene or describing a kingdom—it is about creating a living, breathing universe where every detail, no matter how small, carries meaning. In the older version of Tilism-e-Hoshruba, the focus was often on the action, the heroes, and the magic itself, but the world around them—the way people lived, their customs, their daily rhythms—was largely implied or left to the imagination. I wanted to change that. I wanted my readers to feel as if they could step into this world, touch it, taste it, and live within it.

So I began by building the world from the ground up, layer by layer. I thought about the people: their customs, their daily routines, their hierarchy, and how they interacted with one another. I created the way they measure time—the names of months and seasons, the structure of a day, even the rituals that mark the passing of hours. I designed the lifestyles of each region, from the poorest villages to the royal courts, considering their diet, dress, architecture, and even the gestures and language unique to each group. I mapped out the ways families relate to each other, the respect owed to elders, the etiquette of courts, and the unspoken rules of diplomacy and loyalty.

Magic, too, is deeply interwoven with this society. It is not just an external force, but a part of the world’s logic and culture. There are consequences, traditions, and limitations. Sorcerers and sorceresses do not exist in a vacuum; their powers influence social hierarchy, economy, and even the rhythm of daily life.

To maintain consistency, I keep detailed notes—almost like an atlas of Tilsim Hoshruba. Every character’s backstory, every magical rule, every regional custom is recorded. I make sure that the names of places, the way people speak, and the logic of the magic system remain coherent across books. Small details matter: a ritual performed in Book 1 might ripple into political or magical consequences in Book 3. Even something as minor as how a family addresses a relative or the way they mark a festival has meaning within the culture I’ve created.

In essence, I treat the world itself as a character, alive and evolving alongside the heroes and villains. Readers should feel that when they walk through Tilsim Hoshruba, it is as real as any city they have lived in, yet imbued with the wonder, danger, and magic that only fantasy can provide. My aim is that every leaf, every street, every ritual feels intentional, and that the world is complete, immersive, and unforgettable—a place where a reader can lose themselves entirely, yet always find coherence, logic, and magic interwoven seamlessly.

Honoring Tilism-e-Hoshruba was always my foremost responsibility, because it is more than a story—it is a living piece of Urdu literary heritage. But honoring does not mean blindly copying. The original epic, as magnificent as it is, contains countless repetitions, leaps in logic, and moments where events happen without cause or explanation. If I had followed it word for word, the story would have been inaccessible to modern readers, and the magic, though present, would have been lost in confusion.

So I took a different approach. I asked myself: What is the soul of Tilsim-e-Hoshruba? The answer was clear—the essence lies in its world, its heroes, its magic, and the courage, cunning, and emotions of the characters. Everything else—the illogical jumps, the repeated sequences, the rushed actions—I reimagined in a way that made sense, yet remained faithful to the spirit of the epic.

To give an example: in the original, travel often happens as if by magic. A character intends to go somewhere, and suddenly he is there, without explanation. In my version, I add the steps, the journey, the small details that make the world feel alive. If someone travels from Tilsim Hoshruba to another kingdom, I describe the mode of travel, the provisions they take, the sights they see along the way, the interactions with people or creatures they meet. It is the same story, but now readers can feel it, understand it, and live it.

I also ensured that the characters are multi-dimensional, not flat archetypes. In the original, heroes are purely virtuous, villains purely evil. In my retelling, they have feelings, doubts, desires, and contradictions. A sorcerer may be merciless in one moment, yet capable of compassion in another. A hero may act bravely, but falter when faced with moral dilemmas. This adds depth, realism, and emotional resonance, while preserving the epic’s magical and adventurous heart.

Ultimately, the legacy of Tilism-e-Hoshruba is preserved because its world and its magic are still alive, and because the story now speaks to contemporary readers without losing the wonder that made the original timeless. I did not translate or simplify; I rebirthed it, keeping the soul intact, but allowing it to breathe, feel, and live for a new generation. The epic is honored not just by its words, but by the life and logic I brought into its world, letting readers experience it as both magical and believable.

When people ask me—or, more directly, criticize me—for having “changed the real Tilsim-e-Hoshruba,” I find the best answer is neither defensive nor confrontational. It is historical, literary, and principled. The truth is: I haven’t changed Tilsim. I’ve resurrected it.

The original Tilsim-e-Hoshruba was never meant to stand still. It is not a static, sacred text, frozen in time. It is a dynamic, living epic—the product of centuries of oral storytelling, passed through the mouths and minds of poets, hakims, soldiers, and travelers. It evolved across Persian courts, Deccani traditions, and finally into classical Urdu prose in the Dastan-e-Amir Hamza collections of colonial India. Each retelling was an act of cultural remixing: adapting, embellishing, sharpening, and sometimes reinventing. That is the very essence of dastangoi: the storyteller is not just a narrator, but a conjurer, a performer, a co-creator of the universe they inherit.

So to accuse a modern retelling of “changing” the story misunderstands the very soul of Tilism: it is supposed to evolve. Its magic, its adventures, its tricksters, its heroes—they were never meant to be fixed in amber. They were meant to be lived, retold, and reimagined.

What I have preserved is everything that truly defines Hoshruba. The realm is the same—a world of sorcery, tilisms, tricksters, and heirs. The characters are faithful—Umro Ayyar, Amir Hamzeh, Afrasiyab, and others still exist. The mythology, the prophecies, the magic—it all remains rooted in the original framework.

But I have also brought something new: logic to the magic, clarity to the chaos, and emotional depth to names that were once only archetypes. My characters feel, falter, love, betray, and grow. My world has seasons, months, and customs. Journeys take time; actions have cause and consequence. I didn’t erase. I refined. I didn’t simply modernize. I magnified.

In the end, this is not a betrayal of heritage—it is a continuation, a revival. I have taken a story that belonged to history, dusted it off, and breathed into it the life, heart, and soul it always deserved. And in doing so, I hope both old admirers and new readers can experience the true wonder of Hoshruba, as it was always meant to be felt: alive, magical, and eternal.

I say this with deep respect—but the original Urdu renditions, especially those published in the 19th century, were incredibly difficult for modern readers to engage with. They were repetitive, episodic, and often filled with ornate flourishes that substituted for character depth or coherent plot development. There were hundreds of pages of battles, sorcery, and heroics—yes, thrilling—but too often these lacked emotional stakes. Women were frequently ornamental rather than fully realized, and characters, though powerful, rarely paused to reflect, to struggle, or to feel. It was a world of high magic, low consequence.

As a writer of this generation, I could not simply translate these tales. Translation would have rendered them flat, inaccessible, and disconnected from readers’ hearts. I had to transform the epic—not to betray it, but to resurrect it, to give it life in a way that maintained its soul while allowing it to resonate with today’s audience.

What my Tilism offers instead is a world where heroes bleed as well as fight, where princes are torn between destiny and love, and where swords are not the only instruments of consequence. Princesses are not merely powerful—they are poetic, fierce, conflicted, and human. Queens like Hayret, Mahrukh, and Bihar are not just sorceresses—they are fully realized psychological portraits of ambition, rebellion, and trauma. Umro Ayyar is no longer simply clever; he is morally grey, unpredictable, and the embodiment of timeless trickery that questions right, wrong, and everything in between.

In doing this, I followed the very tradition of oral storytelling. Every storyteller who carried Tilism forward reshaped it, brought it to life, and made it their own. I entered the world of Hoshruba and did the same: preserving its magic, its mythos, its heroes, while giving it coherence, emotional resonance, and depth for a modern imagination.

Moreover, literary tradition itself demands this kind of bold reimagining. If we celebrate Shakespeare’s reinterpretations of history, revere Tolkien for reviving Norse and Anglo-Saxon myths, and admire modern mythmakers for breathing new life into Greek heroes or Marvel gods, why should Urdu-Persian fantasy remain caged in archaic prose, unreadable and untouched? Reimagination is not betrayal. It is continuity, a way to let legends evolve, survive, and inspire.

So no—I haven’t changed the real Tilism. I’ve reopened the Zambeel. I’ve breathed fire into its forgotten scrolls. And I’ve handed it to a new generation—not in dust and archaic language, but in prose they can feel, characters they can remember, and a world they will never want to leave.

Yes, very much so. For me, language is not just a tool to convey events—it is the soul of the story itself. Tilism-e-Hoshruba is a world of magic, prophecy, tricksters, and epic adventures, and I wanted every word to carry the weight, the wonder, and the emotion of that world. When a reader steps into Tilsim Hoshruba, they should feel the shimmer of sorcery on their skin, hear the clash of swords in their ears, and sense the heartbeat of the characters as if they were living it themselves.

I have always been fascinated by how emotion and imagery can transport readers. In modern fantasy, it’s not enough to describe battles or magic—you need to immerse someone fully, so that every glance, gesture, or whispered spell resonates. That is why my writing leans poetic and cinematic. I want readers to not just read, but to see, feel, and inhabit the world.

It is also intentional in service of character. When a queen mourns, a trickster schemes, or a hero faces destiny, the emotion must be palpable, tangible, and unforgettable. The grandeur of Tilsim Hoshruba is not only in its magic or battles—it is in the inner lives of its characters, their choices, their desires, their fears. Language becomes the bridge between the fantastical and the human.

And yes, it is cinematic because I see my stories unfolding in my mind like a movie, scene by scene. I want readers to experience every moment as vividly as if it were happening before their eyes, to feel the suspense, the romance, the tension, the wonder.

So, while it is intentional, it is also natural. It comes from my love of storytelling, from the oral tradition of dastans, and from a desire to create a world that lingers in the mind long after the last page is turned. In every sentence, I want readers to breathe the magic, live the journey, and remember the heartbeat of Tilsim Hoshruba.

I hear that often. People say Urdu fantasy is niche, that it doesn’t appeal to a wide audience, that readers won’t invest in a world of magic written in our language. And I understand why—they are looking at it with the lens of numbers and markets, forgetting the heart of storytelling. But here is what I know: Urdu fantasy is not just a genre. It is a living, breathing universe, unlike anything the world has seen—because it blends faith, emotion, and imagination in ways Western fantasy rarely dares.

In Western fantasy, you often see two separate paths: science and reason, or magic and myth. Faith is rarely woven in as a logical, integral part of the world. Emotion is powerful, yes—but it is rarely entwined with destiny, prophecy, and the mystical logic of the universe itself. Urdu storytelling, especially the tradition of dastans, has always allowed all these to coexist: reason and magic, emotion and destiny, faith and adventure. The stories do not ask the reader to leave one behind for another—they embrace contradiction, harmony, and possibility all at once.

This is exactly what I wanted to do in The Legend of Tilsim Hoshruba. I wanted to show that faith can coexist with logic, magic can obey rules, and emotion can guide action without losing the grandeur of adventure. A sorcerer’s spell may follow a principle akin to science; a prophecy may unfold like a chain of logical consequences; a hero’s heart may bleed in love while wielding a sword in war. Nothing is random, nothing is arbitrary, yet everything retains the wonder, awe, and intensity of high fantasy.

More than that, Urdu fantasy carries a depth of feeling that is rare anywhere in the world. It allows characters to be fully human: torn, conflicted, ambitious, fearful, passionate. A princess can be fierce and poetic; a hero can be morally grey and tender; a villain can inspire empathy even while committing acts of darkness. Readers do not merely witness these characters—they live within them, feel their choices, and wrestle with their dilemmas.

And this is the reason I believe Urdu fantasy can and will sell, not because it follows trends, but because it offers something truly unique: a tapestry where faith, reason, magic, and emotion coexist seamlessly, where worlds feel alive, where every gesture, word, and glance carries weight, meaning, and wonder. It is a language of the heart, and hearts are always hungry for stories that move them, that make them dream, that make them believe in the impossible.

So, yes, Urdu fantasy may be underestimated—but it is not weak. It is a river that has been flowing quietly for centuries, carrying magic, culture, and soul. I did not set out to prove it can sell—I set out to show its brilliance, its depth, its unmatched power. And when a reader opens Tilsim Hoshruba, my hope is that they will not think of selling or markets—they will simply fall into a world they will never want to leave.

If Tilsim Hoshruba were alive, it would feel like a heartbeat that echoes through the mountains and deserts of imagination—a pulse of wonder that thrums in the air before a storm of magic. It would smell of parchment and spices, the forests of ancient kingdoms, and the faint shimmer of spells cast in twilight. Its voice would be soft and fierce at once, whispering secrets to those who listen closely and roaring challenges to those who dare to wander too carelessly.

And what would it want to tell its readers? It would tell them that every choice matters, every heart is capable of courage, and even the smallest soul can bend destiny. It would teach that love can be as powerful as war, that laughter can survive the darkest betrayal, and that truth and illusion often dance together in ways that are both beautiful and dangerous.

Tilsim Hoshruba would invite its readers to step into a world where logic bends to wonder, where faith can coexist with magic, and where every shadow may hide both peril and delight. It would ask them to dream boldly, to feel deeply, and to believe that the impossible is never truly impossible.

For me, writing it has been a conversation with that living world—listening to its whispers, learning its secrets, and inviting readers to walk beside it, to stumble, to soar, and to lose themselves in its endless horizons. Because in the end, Tilsim Hoshruba is not just a story; it is a heartbeat, a breath, and a reminder that magic is never truly gone—it lives wherever we allow ourselves to believe.