THE WAY IT WAS: Of pehlwans and miniatures —Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
The way their young student Bashir realised in a matter of a few years what
the great peers could not achieve is quite remarkable. While the old masters
were singing lullabies to the dying muse, Bashir nursed her to life by imparting
to it a new meaning. Ever since, the miniature painters have multiplied by the
dozen
“One of the customs prevailing among the rich in Lahore was very quaint,”
informs Dr Musarrat Hasan (Painting in the Punjab Plains, pub: Ferozesons).
“They patronised a wrestler and paid for his maintenance, so that the wrestler
could carry the name and colours of the patron during his fights.” She
proceeds to narrate a rather amusing episode about an artist Khalifa Imam Din.
Khalifa Imam Din was called Khalifa because of the high standard of his artwork
in the field of painting. He lived in Koocha Mitti Putan — you will agree we
had far more interesting names of the streets then — in the Walled City. His
descendants have continued to paint to this day.
Mustafa, a well-known painter of cinema posters and hoardings, is his grandson
who learnt to paint from Ustad Allah Buksh. In an interview with Dr Musarrat
Hasan, he narrates that when his grandfather, “Imam Din became a successful
and recognised artist, he felt like emulating the rich people around him”. He
particularly vied with another artist, the well-known Master Miran Bakhsh
Moortanwaley. Miran Bakhsh lived in Koocha Musawwaran of Gumti Bazaar and was
famous for having painted sections of the Assembly Hall and the Viceregal Lodge
at Delhi. He had also rendered a portrait of the viceroy himself. In recognition
of his artistic accomplishments he was offered a trip to England that he
declined and asked Master Feroze, his colleague at Mayo School, to go instead.
Mr Feroze after his return from abroad came to be known as Feroze Walaiti, for
he took to wearing angrez apparel and strutted around with walaiti airs. Miran
Bakhsh was, “too well settled to leave” perhaps he could not leave his
pehlwan alone at the mercy of his family. Dr Hasan informs however that Khalifa
Imam Din’s efforts to emulate the illustrious artist ended in a disaster. The
cost of maintaining a wrestler was so high that the Khalifa had to sell his
haveli to Bulaki Shah, the notorious moneylender. It went for a paltry sum of a
hundred and fifty rupees.
As mentioned in the previous article, Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala was
not only a great patron of pehlwans but of the artists as well. Bhupinder Singh
was a colourful maharaja who besides the sports and the arts liked his drink and
pleasurable pursuits. One of his grandsons reportedly observed that while he
meticulously measured two fingers of whisky for a peg, his father poured three,
whereas his illustrious grandfather took a peg of only one finger — but the
finger was in a vertical position. It is not surprising that his peg came to be
known as the Patiala peg. It would be wise for novices to avoid using the
measure.
The late Haji Sharif, Pakistan’s well-known miniature painter, hailed from
Patiala, where he worked for Maharaja Bhupinder Singh. Dr Hasan, once again
informs us in her introduction of the brochure for a joint exhibition of Haji
Sahib and his son Muhammad Hanif, held some years back a the Lahore British
Council that at the Patiala court he received a monthly salary of sixty rupees,
with which he not only supported his own family but also despatched his brother
to Lahore to study art at the Mayo School. We are told that he paid for his
brother’s education by sending to the principal, Mr Gupta, one of his
miniature paintings every few months. I wonder what happened to those
miniatures? Where are they? Where have they gone?
Haji Sahib’s father and grandfather were also court artists at Patiala. Ustad
Allah Ditta, his grandfather, worked in the Mughal tradition, while his father,
Basharatullah, who was trained by Parkhu — an artist from the Hill States —
worked in the Pahari style. Haji Sahib migrated from Patiala to Lahore in 1945.
After Partition he established the miniature section at the Mayo School of Arts.
I remember him once saying that miniature painting was a product of inner
tranquillity and then reminiscing that at Patiala the Maharaja never allowed any
person or event to disturb his peace. There was not an iota of complaint in his
voice but some how I felt personally admonished.
I wonder how many rich and ‘Raees’ members of our society, except perhaps
for Syed Babar Ali, ever commissioned Haji Sahib for a miniature. Some of Haji
Sahib’s finest works were inherited for free by the National College of Arts,
where he worked as an ‘instructor’. Pakistan National Council of Arts
acquired most of his other miniatures after his death through efforts of Khalid
Saeed Butt, who was then the director general of the organisation.
In passing, let me mention that one of the things that delights a person on
visiting the Packages Industries, situated at Kot Lakhpat, Lahore — besides
the variety of roses in its manicured lawns — is the paintings hanging there.
I recall as far back as the late sixties they had in their collection Shakir
Ali, Jameel Naqsh and Moyene Najmi as well as many others artists. I must also
compliment Syed Babar Ali for undertaking to manufacture excellent opaque and
transparent water-based pigments for artists.
On Haji Sharif’s retirement Sheikh Shujaullah replaced him as the miniature
instructor. Sheikh Shuja was also trained in the Mughal miniature style and
continued to impart the specific technique and skills to an odd student who out
of curiosity, more than anything else, took up miniature painting. For many
years after the creation of Pakistan miniature painting remained an anachronism,
patronised for being reminiscent of a great cultural and art tradition. It was,
however, only grudgingly respected. No one would have shed a tear if with the
passage of time it had demised. Haji Sharif and Sheikh Shuja had kept the
techniques alive — teaching people how to prepare the right paper surface,
drawing the contours and building shadows — but they made no effort whatsoever
to employ their skills to portray their surroundings. They relied almost
entirely on traditional subjects, forms and figures.
When Bashir Ahmed, a student of Sheikh Shuja, became the head of the miniature
department, the unexpected happened. Miniature painting, instead of proceeding
to die returned to life. The way their young student Bashir realised in a matter
of a few years what the great peers could not achieve is quite remarkable. While
the old masters were singing lullabies to the dying muse, Bashir nursed her to
life by imparting to it a new meaning. Ever since, the miniature painters have
multiplied by the dozen. While many continue to ape the anachronism associated
with Persian, Mughal and Pahari styles, some like Shazia Sikander and others
have creatively adapted it to express their individual concerns — a step
forward for miniature painting.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and political activist