 |
||
|
||
|
||
Cast your steady and loving stare at poesy's Laila.
Well past lexicons and glossaries, can you get a glimpse?
Meanings do not flutter over the heads of syllables
You have to descend inside the bosom of words to feel the
experience.
Shabbir Hasan Khan (18981982), popularly known as Josh Malihabadi,
would rank, along with Mohammed Iqbal, Faiz Ahmad and Firaq
Gorakpuri, among the great Urdu poets of this century. He was the
Shair-i Inquilab, the poet of revolution, a nonconformist, an
iconoclast and a relentless crusader for social justice, human
dignity), and equality. His poems (the first collection was
published in 1921) have, in the words of the noted critic Syed
Ehtesham Husain, "all the heal of fire and his ideas all the force
of a volcano." In his patriotic and revolutionary poems, including
A Dream of Prison-break and Address to the Sons of East India
Company, he enunciated his theory of revolution for reconstruction,
clearly expressed in these lines: Behind the facade of the
destruction of this fossilised man The work of creating a new man
is no progress. Josh was editor of Aaj Kal and advisor to the All
India Radio before migrating to Pakistan in 1956 against Pandit
Jawaharlal Nehru's advice. A loner in Pakistan, he missed his
friends from Hyderabad, Bombay, Delhi and Lucknow. His eclectic and
unorthodox ideas were severely criticised. At the same time, the
"unselfconsciousness candour" of his autobiography reveals the
opportunism, fickleness and, above all, vulnerability of a great
poet.
It was probably around 1948 when I dropped the idea of selling
vegetables and reached Delhi. I went to Panditji (Jawaharlal Nehru)
straightway who talked to Sardar Patel over the phone and fixed a
job for me. He also agreed to arrange a pension for me from some
of the states. He then asked me to meet Mian Azim Husain (son of
the Punjab Unionist Party leader Fazl-i Husain), secretary of the
information department.
Mian Azim Husain turned out to be a gentleman. I was impressed. He
told me that I would receive a monthly salary of Rs 1,100, but
wondered if this paltry sum was sufficient to make both ends meet.
I told him that Panditji had promised to organise a literary
pension.
When I stepped into the crowded hall for the interview (editorship
of Aaj Kal), I noticed a large number of applicants (lashkar, or
army, in the original). The expression on their faces changed when
they spotted me. They were haunted by the prospect of being
rejected. For this reason I was deeply upset. I wish I hadn't come
and caused such disappointment to so many. I was reminded of the
verse of Urfi. (Persian couplet of Urfi Shirazi omitted.)
I entered the interview room and noticed Mian Azim Husain, Ajmal
Khan and four or five other persons who were not known to me. I
made myself comfortable and took out my paan box. Just then, a
Madrasi-looking gentleman told me in English to refrain from
chewing paan. I protested indignantly. "You are free; yet you
adhere to the norms laid down by your erstwhile colonial masters.
I'll not stop. Chewing a paan is like breathing. If you don't
approve, I leave." I was just about to do that. That is when Mian
Azim Husain and Ajmal Khan intervened and told me to go ahead.
Thereafter, probably Ajmal Khan said to me: "How do we interview
you Josh saheb? Please recite your poem against the Nizam (of
Hyderabad)." I replied, "Ajmal Khan, what's the use? My poetry
won't go down well with people who are still influenced by British
manners (and customs)."
In response, Mian Azim Husain, Ajmal Khan and several other people
said in one voice: "Please do recite your poem. We are your
admirers." I did so and the interview was over thereafter.
After joining Aaj Kal as its editor, I went over to meet Panditji.
He asked me if 1 had met Sardar Patel, the minister of my
department. I told him I hadn't. Nor did I intend meeting him.
Panditji wanted to know the reason. I replied in English: "Because
he has got a criminal face."
Panditji burst out laughing. "No, no, you must meet him. I'll fix
a meeting." He did just that. I was asked to go across to his
(Patel) residence immediately.
The dhoti-clad Patel stood in the porch. "Sardar I said to him
after the handshake, "I was very keen to meet you for a very
special reason." He was a hard nut to crack. "Special reason?" He
understood and asked why I was so keen to meet him. I replied: "The
reason is that I've heard very many comments against you."
He led me to a room. After we settled down, he said to me in
English: "You would have heard that I am an enemy of the Muslims.
I know you are brutally; frank in your conversation. So ant I.
That is why I want to say to you clearly that I respect Muslims
like you whose ancestors came from outside India and settled her.
But I don't approve of those Shudras and lower-caste Hindus who
embraced Islam under the influence of the Muslim governments. Such
elements are, in actual fact, extremely prejudiced (mustaasib).
wicked (sharir) and troublemakers (fasidi). They are a minority;
yet they want to keep the Hindu majority under their thumb.
I said: "Sardar saheb, first and foremost, the entire humanity
belongs to one race. I have no faith in the caste system at all.
Secondly, how does it matter if somebody's ancestor was a chamar
two or three hundred years ago? Do you think his station in life
has not been transformed? Is he still a chamar?"
He was about to reply when his secretary reminded him of his
appointment with the Maharaja of Patiala.
I ran into Maulana Azad as soon as I came out of Sardar Patel's
house. He stopped the car and called me over. And when I got off my
car and went over to him, he had a pained expression on his face.
"Josh saheb, you and Sardar Patel." I bowed my head, while he read
the verse. (Persian couplet omitted.)
The Maulana departed after reciting the verse, but I was greatly
troubled. After all we've made such sacrifices to achieve
Independence. What for? To sound the death knell of Urdu? To
leave Muslims confused and bewildered? I recalled the words of Qazi
Azizuddin, the prime minister of Datia state, who had said to me:
"Josh saheb, did I not tell you that Hindus would slaughter the
Muslims the day India is free?" Another thought came to me. Why
didn't the architects of Pakistan consider the fate of those
Muslims who were destined to remain in India.? Why did they not
take every single Muslim along with them to Pakistan? I then
comforted myself with the hope that mutual hatred and prejudices
would be overcome. A Socialist government would be formed, one that
would put an end to the divisive forces. That is when religious
collectivities (or fraternity) would be replaced with universal
brotherhood (insaani biradari).
Yeh ek shab ki tarap hai sehar to hone do
Behisht sar pe liye rozgaar guzre ga
Faza ke dil me purafshaan hai aarzooai ghubaar
Zaroor idher se koi shehsawaar guzre ga.
(This is the agony of the night, let the dawn come Paradise will
descend on earth
Desires spread wings over heart's domain, for the dust to
rise
A chevalier will surely pass by.)
In 1955, I went to Pakistan for the third time to take part in a
mushaira. Then, as also on previous visits, my friend Syed Abu
Talib Naqvi (chief commissioner of Karachi) invited me to settle in
Pakistan. But on this occasion he was more insistent than before.
I was not prepared to live in Pakistan. But I didn't want to hurt
Naqvi by saying so. In order to avoid any further discussion, I
agreed to consider his request.
Naqvi organised, while I was still in Pakistan, a gathering at his
house and invited the elite of the city, including Iskander Mirza.
My musaddas - Husain aur Inquilab - was recited. Everybody
present, including Iskander Mirza, insisted that I settle in
Pakistan. By God, I was convinced that I would not do such a thing
but ended up by agreeing to consider the suggestion.
"Josh saheb, how long will you keep on thinking?" Naqvi persisted
'in getting an answer. I was exasperated. How long could I
postpone the decision? (Aur bedudh ka baccha paala rahun gar.)
One day he turned up at the Metropole Hotel to secure a firm
commitment from me. I said to him: "You know that I love you and I
would be prepared to give my life for you. But..."
"Now don't you say no."
I kept quiet. Naqvi moved from his sofa and sat next to me. "So
when are you coming to Pakistan?" I braced myself for the occasion,
lowered my eyes and told him: "How can I come to Pakistan as long
as Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru is alive?"
Placing his hand on my shoulder, Naqvi asked: "And what will happen
after Nehru? Have you thought about this?"
"I pray to God that I don't live to see that day."
Naqvi said: "A poet's greatest misfortune is that he tends to weigh
the serious problems of his life in the scales of emotions. I want
to know if you've considered your future in the event of Nehru's
death during your lifetime. Who will admire you in Hindustan?
What would happen to your job, your leisurely life, your prestige?
Even if you are treated well, you must consider the future of your
children. What happens to them after you? They would be at large
without a patron. So far I've been discussing the material
aspects. The cultural (or tehzibi) dimension is also important,
nay, alarming. You children will be made to read Hindi and not
Urdu. They would read translations of your poetry in Hindi.
Indeed, they would have no links with your cultural and
intellectual heritage. Such is the likely scale and magnitude of
the impending social and cultural transformation. Are you prepared
to accept the massive destruction of a tradition? If you don't
settle in Pakistan, it would simply mean that you are ready to
sacrifice your family interests in order to serve your personal
ends."
I was stirred to the depth of my heart by his long, sentimental,
coherent speech. What would happen to my pampered children who are
accustomed to a comfortable lifestyle? And my wife with her
aristocratic temperament? Of course, my children will not be able
to do well in India. I told Naqvi that he had shaken me up but I
needed more time to decide. "I'll ,let you know my final decision
at this time the following day."
I turned to Nasir Ahmad after Naqvi was gone. He agreed every word
spoken by Naqvi.
Raising his forefinger in the air, he said emphatically: "If you
don't migrate to Pakistan, you will repent all your life. You and
your ancestors have ruled over Malihabad for many generations. Your
ryots tremble in your presence, bow before you, salute you. The
children of the same lot (usi do kauri ki riyaya) will preside over
the lives of your children. They would make them wear dhotis and
grow chotis. God willing, may we not live to witness that day."
I woke up in the morning, had a bath, went over to Naqvi's house,
and conveyed to him my readiness to migrate (hijral) to Pakistan.
He was delighted. At that very moment he directed the deputy
commissioner so allot a plot of land on Jehangir Road for a house
and a cinema and 50 acres of land (I don't remember the name of the
place) for an orchard.
I gained possession of the land. My chowkidars built their
jhonpris and started living there. With the formalities over,
Naqvi asked me to travel to Delhi, secure an emergency certificate
and bring my family over to Pakistan. The cinema hall he told me,
would be built after my arrival. His secretary Rabbani found me a
small house in the Sind Muslim Housing Society. I then took a
flight to Delhi.
I reached Delhi. Panditji was out of town. He was expected to
return after two or three days. I went to see the Maulana
straightaway. He had already read a newspaper report that Pakistan
was trying to rope in a Hindustani poet. He promptly pointed
towards me "Probably you are the one.
"Yes, Maulana, I'm the poet." I narrated my story, repeating every
word of Naqvi's speech. "Now Maulana, what's your opinion?"
He asked a few questions and understood the problem and its various
facets. "Your hijrat will be a source of embarrassment to us. But,
I believe, you should go for the sake of your family. Naqvi was
right in saying that after Nehru's death you will not be looked
after. Why just you, nobody would care for me either (aap to aap
khud mujhe koi nahin puchega). I tend to view problems from a
logical (or pragmatic) standpoint. Not Jawaharlal. He is intensely
emotional and would not agree to your going (hijrat)."
On the third day I reached Palam airport, greeted Panditji, drove
back with him to his house and explained everything to him. He was
visibly distressed to hear Maulana Azad's reaction.
"Josh saheb, you've placed me in a difficult (or awkward)
situation. In my opinion, you wouldn't have considered abandoning
your country for the narrow-minded patriotism of the Hindus.
Anyhow, this is a very delicate (or sensitive) matter. Let me
think for a couple of days. I will also seek Maulana's opinion."
I went back to Panditji after two days. I noticed the relaxed,
bright expression that comes naturally to those who have solved a
knotty problem. Beaming and smiling, he announced that he had come
up with a solution.
"Is it not true that you are going to Pakistan to safeguard the
material and cultural interests of your family, and to promote the
cause of Urdu?"
I agreed, "There is no second reason."
"In that case your children can be Pakistanis. But you stay put in
India. Make a trip to Pakistan for four months each year and serve
the cause of Urdu. The Government of India will grant you leave
and pay your salary for the period of absence."
I jumped at Panditji's suggestion. I told him that I endorsed his
idea wholeheartedly. In this way I would have the best of both the
worlds.
Panditji was delighted and hugged me. The very next day the media
men cornered me. I explained my discussions with Nehru. My
interview appeared in the English and Urdu newspapers two days
later.
Pakistani citizenship
The going of prince Gulfam in the fourth direction only to be
surrounded by demons and evil spirits.
Before I rum to the evil spirits, let me tell you that Naqvi saheb
dampened my spirits when I revealed my future plans in the light of
discussions with Panditji. He made it clear that no land allotment
could take place unless I agreed to be a Pakistani citizen. Nobody
would build a cinema hall or raise an orchard. "Your children are
dear to us because they are yours," he said.
Naqvi added: "Besides, to which country would you belong to? In
Pakistan you would be treated as an Indian, whereas the Indians
would be suspicious of you because your family members are citizens
of Pakistan. And haven't you decided to spend four months in
Pakistan? Josh saheb, you can't cross a river with your feet
anchored in two boats. Mind you, your credibility would be
undermined in both the countries."
I was rudely shaken by what Naqvi said. He was realistic and
talked sense. I accepted his arguments and became a citizen of
Pakistan.
Now, about the evil spirits.
Soon thereafter, there was a massive outcry in Pakistan. All hell
broke loose in Karachi. It seemed as if the bugle announcing
doomsday had been proclaimed (goya sur-i qayamat phoonk dya gaya
hai). Urdu and English newspapers came out into the open and
declared war against me. (Taman adba wa shuara our cartoon-saazon
ne apne apne qalmon ki talwaren miyan se nikal kar mere khilaaf
mazameen, qataat aur cartoonon ke bharmaar kar di).
There were noisy and uproarious scenes everywhere, as if the great
Mughal - Abul Talib Naqvi - had divided Pakistan into two and
handed over one part to me. People belonging to different groups
forged a common front and united against me. For example, the
Wahabis, the Barelwis, the Deobandis, and the Qadianis. The Sunnis
and the Shias set aside their long-standing differences of 1,400
years to act in unison and declared war against me.
Chaman me kya gaya goya dabistnaan khul gaya. (Ghalib)
(As I stepped into the garden, it became a school, as it were.)
My going to Pakistan was like a dreadful dacoit ransacking the
treasures of Qarun. Or Abraha laying siege to the Ka'aba. Or
Kamdev sneaking into the palace of the virgins. Picture the
virgins running helter-skelter and repeating the name of Allah -
Hai Allah! Hai Allah!
News of the uproar reached the ministry of external affairs. Naqvi
was asked to give an explanation. Realising that I was the source
of difficulties, I quietly surrendered the plot of orchard land and
the cinema.
In those days Chaudhri Muhammad Ali was the Prime Minister., Naqvi
fell out with him. He took on the Prime Minister on the strength
of Iskander Mirza's backing. But the Mirza turned his back on
Naqvi. He was removed from office. Naqvi's downfall was the last
straw. I was left high and dry.
I thought of returning to India, but did not do so to protect my
self-respect and dignity. I asked myself, "Khan saheb, what next?"
My heart told me not to give up. "If there is a thorn one can make
a bouquet" (Persian line).
Some people suggested that I secure a license and get into the
import-export business. I got into the act only to realise later
that I was not fit to be a trader. I would leave in the morning,
return to the house in the afternoon, rest for a while, and then
set out again. Running around was a nightmarish experience.
My state was reduced to the alam that is taken out by the village
people during Muharram. Amidst the din and clatter of drums, the
alam is placed in the courtyard of every household, taken out in a
procession, and then brought back to the house amidst the same din
and bustle.
My running around was unrewarding. Yet I came across directors,
secretaries and ministers only to experience their demeaning
behaviour and conduct. They were a pathetic lot, arrogant, crude
and ill-bred. I concluded that there was no place for a man of
letters in this community (quam). Every writer and poet should
commit suicide.
It is true that the Hindu officials are often pretentious, but,
Allah-o-Akbar, when a Muslim becomes a head constable he starts
acting like a Haamaan and Pharaoh.
Once in power, children of domestic servants and street vendor
regard themselves as a Kaiser and a Darius. Consider, (the litany
of my complaints) the list of my failures:
I voluntarily surrendered the cinema plot at Jehangir Road, along
with the orchard land.
I made a bid for a cinema plot, but failed to pay its price.
The deputy commissioner of Karachi, Hashmi, gave me 50 acres of
land for cultivation. Altaf Gauhar confiscated it.
I was given a permit for cycle-rick-shaws, but their prices crashed
in the market.
I was allowed to build a cold-storage but the financiers were told
to back out.
Likewise the financiers were prevented from investing in another
business proposition that was worked out by Wajid Ali Shah.
Secured a licence for the sale of leaf tobacco, but could not stand
the behaviour of the official. I said unpleasant things to him and
came home in a huff.
The minister changed when I was about to receive permission to
start a textile mill.
The minister was removed just before he was to give his assent to
my printing press.
The secretary in the fisheries department who issued a permit to me
was removed.
My attempt to buy a petrol pump proved abortive.
A house was allotted to me but I have yet to occupy it.
My application for a job in the department of village upliftment
was rejected.
I could not find a publisher for my books.
I was allowed to start a restaurant in the corner of Friar Hall.
I was not paid remuneration for the work I did for the Sindhi Adabi
Board.
An officer in the rehabilitation board allotted me land for
building a house.
But he did not extend to me the courtesy of rising from his seat;
so I tore u the letter of allotment in his presence.
The chief minister of Punjab, Qizilbash, was to give me permission
to start an industry. Just then the Army staged a coup and his
ministry was dismissed.
Jis jagah hum ne banaya ghar sarak me aa gaya.
I was completely disoriented with these unending failures. I was
acutely depressed and poverty-stricken. The thousand rupees loaned
to me by Naqvi every month was inadequate. To make both ends meet
I used a friend to sell off jewellery.
How long can one sail in a paper boat? My wife asked me to cut
down on expenses; so I gave up drinking. I was like a child from
whom milk is taken away. To overcome my craving for alcohol, I had
early dinner. But I continued to be restless. I picked up a book
but found it so very hard to read. Alphabets slithered like snakes
and words appeared like scorpions with their sting-tails up.
I would keep tossing and turning in bed. Not a wink of sleep.
My body used to itch a lot and I would scratch myself for hours. I
was in acute pain and my agony was like that of the severed tail of
a lizard.
And when I looked into the mirror in the morning for my daily
shave, I would be shocked to see my gnat-like face crumpled by
sleeplessness. I looked like a pauper sitting on the stairs of
Delhi's Jama Masjid flashing his teeth and begging for alms.
If I was lucky enough to get a wink of sleep on a day or two, I
would wake up with unpleasant and disjointed dreams. The tick-tick
of the clock - like the blows of a sledgehammer - would add to my
agony...
India Partitioned: The Other Face of Freedom.
Published by Roli Books
|
||
|
||
|
||